The words of my older self

The desert elicits poetry from my mind while the mountains and sea produce prose. I can never write poems at home.

In my 20s I could write poems anywhere. Flat stuff. Filled with references to simple facts. Optimistic and young. Words of observation.

The stuff I’m capable of now isn’t wholly my own. There needs a catalyst. An outward influence more atmosphere than agent. The dessert is now that place.

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